by David Barry
Sandwich Man
The hard leather straps of the sandwich board cut into Bill Flintlock’s shoulders as he crossed the busy thoroughfare. His legs ached, and he had to summon up enough energy to leap out of the path of the horses pulling an omnibus. He cursed the beasts as he reached the safety of the pavement on the opposite side of Shaftsbury Avenue. If there was one thing he loathed, it was horses. Nasty, unpredictable creatures. He had been bitten by one when he was a young lad. Finding half a carrot in the gutter, he had innocently offered it to a rather mild-looking, raggedy pony. Not only did the brute crunch the carrot, it also crunched his fingers. How was he supposed to know he should have offered the carrot on the flat of his hand? No one had ever told him. It was all very well explaining after the event, but by then the damage was done.
Getting his breath back, he stood for a moment in front of the new Lyric Theatre and surveyed the congestion on the Avenue, thick with horses, cabs, brewery drays, coaches and omnibuses. The new underground railways branching out across the metropolis was a comforting thought to a horse-hater like Bill Flintlock, who couldn’t wait for progress to sound the death knell for the equine brutes.
He scratched his unkempt, grizzled beard and licked his lips. Although he was only thirty-two-years-old, the ravages of a hard, poverty-stricken upbringing had taken its toll, and he wondered if his Music Hall dream was nothing more than a wasted longing. His body ached at the joints, he was hungry and thirsty, and had been marching up and down Shaftsbury Avenue all morning and was now as parched as dry toast, and the July sun in the cloudless sky brought him nothing but discomfort and misery, as it did most of London’s underprivileged. His current employers insisted he walked Shaftsbury Avenue most of the day, alternating the south side with the north side. The pay was poor, but at least it was a job, and he was paid at the end of each day when he returned to their premises by the Thames embankment near Charing Cross at six in the evening. But the demanding walk in the sweltering city exhausted him, and left him scant energy to pursue his ambition to be a Music Hall entertainer. Several evenings a week he sang in pubs, where he managed to earn a few coppers, sometimes as much as a shilling if the customers felt charitable. But mostly it was pennies, and it was only on rare occasions did the meagre coppers add up to a shilling. In order to survive, he tramped the strength-sapping streets, advertising a patented fabric cleaner on his front and back. But it wasn’t just the need of money that kept him tramping the streets. He spent the time thinking, racking his brains for the right words. Words that might one day transport him from barroom to theatre. If only he could write that one memorable song that would be his entry to the Music Halls.
Suddenly, amid the cacophony of the busy street, a rasping voice startled him, close to his ear. ‘Where d’you put the mustard, Bill?’
He turned round carefully, hampered as he was by his sandwich board and stared at the owner of the abrasive voice. He recognised him as a neighbour, one of the residents from Little Dublin in the St Giles area.
‘Don’ you remember me?’ the man grinned through blackened teeth. ‘Name’s Tom. I sees you goin’ out early this mornin’ an’ I says to myself, there goes a man looking’ to fill a sandwich, an’ I wonders where the mustard goes.’
Bill stared unblinkingly at the man and replied, ‘If I ‘ad a farthing for every one who throws that one my way... ’
The man gave a throaty chuckle and finished the sentence for him. ‘You’d be living in clover.’
Bill nodded mournfully and stared at the man’s rodent-like face. He remembered seeing him once in Lumber Court, buying old clothes. Then, more recently, he thought he remembered seeing him at the Red Lion.
The man grinned knowingly. ‘Saw you the other night at the Red Lion.’
Bill felt unnerved, thinking the man might be some sort of mind reader. One of those psychics who were all the rage.
‘Wothca make after you pushed the hat round?’
‘Eight pence and three farthings. Not much when you think I had to share it with the pianist.’
The man shook his head and made a whistling sound through the gaps in his teeth. ‘Tell you what: you look in need of refreshment. What do you say I stand you a pint at this little alehouse I know just off Frith Street.’
Bill tried to look into the man’s eyes without narrowing his own. He was suspicious. His first instinct was one of distrust. Even though the offer seemed genuine, the man’s hearty manner seemed excessive. He behaved as if they were old friends, yet Bill had only ever seen him - well, perhaps on more than those two occasions. Hadn’t he seen him ducking and diving in their insalubrious neighbourhood? But then most of the impecunious residents had reason to dodge creditors, especially landlords, as Bill himself had reason to on many occasions.
Noticing his hesitation, the man clicked his tongue and let his impatience grow. ‘Well, what’s it to be? I haven’t got all day.’
‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Bill explained. ‘But my employers insist I walk up and down Shaftsbury Avenue the whole day. They may check up on me from time to time. And if I’m not here, and I happens to shirk my work in Soho, ‘stead of - ’
The man’s attitude changed deftly into one of sympathy and concern. He placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder and smiled. ‘I understand, my old china. But surely they can’t begrudge you a short break to quench your thirst on a hot day like today.’
Bill had to admit the offer was tempting. He had just enough in his pocket for a pint of ale and a pie for when he finished work, so the offer of a free glass of sustaining beer would keep him going for the next four hours.
‘And I feel guilty,’ the man added, waiting for Bill to ask what he meant.
Bill complied with a tilt of his head and another beard scratch. ‘Guilty?’
‘When I saw you singing your heart out at the Red Lion, I never so much as dropped a farthing in the hat.’
‘Well,’ Bill began, ‘no one need feel obliged - ’
‘No, but you was still working for pennies. That sort of entertainment should not be given on the house. I feel I owes you a drink for having shied away from the hat.
But I wus short of funds that night. So how about it?’
Bill glanced over his shoulder, although he didn’t expect to see anyone deliberately spying on him in the busy Avenue. ‘Very well. I will accompany you for a glass of ale but I had better not stay too long.’ Then, realising he had made it sound as if he was doing the man a favour rather than the other way round, added, ‘I am much obliged to you for a glass, welcome on such a day.’
The man gave him a wide grin, patted him on the shoulder, and guided him into Soho. They crossed Dean Street into Frith Street and found a small unsavoury-looking public house in one of Soho’s back streets. As soon as they stepped inside the pub, into the gloomy smoke-filled den where the sun never reached, the burly, stubble-chinned landlord scowled at Bill.
‘You ain’t bringing sandwich boards in here. No room. ‘Sides, I ain’t got the mustard to go wiv ‘em.’
Bill stopped in the open doorway. ‘What am I gonna do? I can’t leave it outside. Someone might - ’
‘Half-inch sandwich boards?’ the landlord laughed. ‘No one ain’t got a hankerin’ for sandwich boards. Leave it outside the door, if you wanna drink.’
Bill hesitated, while his beer benefactor knocked the back of the board with his knuckles and said, ‘Come on, matey, you know he’s right. Ain’t no one got a need for sandwich boards. An’ who gives a tinker’s curses for patented fabric cleaner?’
Bill backed into the street and, helped by his new friend, raised the sandwich boards from his aching shoulders. He leant the placards against the wall, so that half of the boards could be seen through the open doorway from the inside of the pub.
But his friend moved them to one side so they were no longer visible from the bar.
<
br /> ‘Hey! What are you doing? I won’t be able to keep me eye on ‘em now.’
‘Can’t block the entrance, matey. Come on, let’s have that drink.’
He was ushered towards the bar, and while they waited for the landlord to pour two pints of ale, Bill glanced nervously over his shoulder towards the street.
A hand patted his shoulder.
‘Relax, matey. Enjoy the beer.’
They clinked glasses and drank. Bill had forgotten just how thirsty he was and tilted the glass, downing most of the pint in one open-throated swallow. But as he drank, he saw the crafty smirk on his companion’s face, who winked at the landlord as if they shared a secret joke. Noticing the suspicious expression on Bill’s face, his companion explained with a nod towards the landlord, ‘We ain’t seen such swallowing since Elephant Lil won the yard of ale competition. That’s what tickled us. Elephant Lil and the yard of ale. Cor, what a sight that was.’
Reassured by the reference to this renowned Soho event, and suddenly feeling light headed, Bill said, ‘I hadn’t noticed how thirsty I was.’ He giggled, and was about to swallow the last of his beer when his companion stopped him with a grubby hand on his.
‘Only a measure of three fingers left in the glass. Have another, matey.’
Bill looked nervously towards the door. ‘I really ought - ’ he began.
‘Nonsense. Get it down you and ‘ave another. It’ll make the rest of the day go quicker. As quick as you can drink, if I’m not mistaken. Fill er’ up, landlord.’
Bill drank the rest of the beer and placed his glass on the bar. ‘I’m much obliged to you. But are you not joining me?’
The man laughed, giving Bill another glimpse of his rotten teeth. ‘I ain’t as fast imbibing as some people.’ He gave the landlord another conspiratorial wink. ‘But I’ll soon speed up, and a glorious guzzling I’ll have for the rest of the afternoon.’
Although Bill had been offered the second pint, the landlord ignored his empty glass and moved along the bar to serve another customer. Bill shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. It had been a long day so far, and now the liquid weighed heavily on his bladder. ‘I think I may need to relieve myself.’ He threw an anxious look at the street, hoping his sandwich board was still safe.
His companion patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re worried ‘bout your boards, ain’t yah? Tell you what: while you’re making room for another beer, I’ll pop out an’ make sure all’s well, then you can relax and ‘ave the other beer wiv me.’
Bill smiled gratefully. ‘I am so obliged. So much in your debt.’
The man placed a hand on his heart. ‘On the contrary, it is I who am indebted to you, sir, for such great entertainment.’
Bill hurried off to the pub’s lavatory to relieve himself, singing a comic song as he did so. He felt content, and told himself he had been foolish in not trusting a man willing to treat him to pints of beer because his singing was appreciated. Why distrust a man who wanted nothing more than companionship? As he returned to the bar, he felt a renewal of optimism and brotherly love. But as he walked through the adjoining door leading from the lavatory, he couldn’t see his companion anywhere in the bar. A suspicious bolt shot through his body. He dashed towards the pub entrance and stepped out into the street. The wall where he had stood his placards was bare. The sandwich boards had gone.
Panicking, he went back into the pub and approached the landlord, who was talking to another customer.
‘The man I was with. Where is he?’
The landlord pursed his lips, shrugged, ignored Bill and continued talking to the customer.
‘What am I going to do? My sandwich board is gone!’ Bill screamed. ‘The bastard has taken it. He said he’d look after it and he’s taken it.’
The landlord pointed a stubby finger at Bill. ‘Hoy! You ain’t having no barney in my pub. You can buy a drink or you can clear off.’
Despair swamped Bill’s voice as he came close to tears. ‘But where is he?’ he croaked. ‘Where did he go?’
‘How should I know. He just stepped out the door.’
‘You know him, don’t you?’
‘Never seen him before in my life.’
‘Yes, you do. I could tell.’
‘You calling me a liar?’
Bill’s eyes blazed with sudden anger. ‘Yes! You’re lying. You’re both in it together. You’re a liar and a cheat.’
‘What did you say?’ The landlord picked up a cudgel from under the bar and moved towards the counter flap.
‘All right! I’m going. I’m going.’
As Bill skedaddled across the bar and back into the street, he heard the landlord yelling after him, ‘And don’t come back!’
He moved a few yards away from the pub, then stopped, looking up and down the street in both directions. The cheating bastard would be long gone by now, and Soho was full of little alleys and courts down which a man could disappear if chased. How could he have been so stupid as to fall for that one? He’d been set up, that was for sure. The man had taken his sandwich board and would probably paint over the fabric advertisement and then sell it to another company for them to advertise their wares. For the cost of a few pennies outlay for the beer, the man might make a reasonable profit, selling the sandwich boards for as much as five or ten shillings. And, Bill suspected, the deal may have been agreed on in advance, with the thief offering his services to an unscrupulous buyer, saying he might be able to provide the goods for such and such a price. Find the buyer before obtaining the goods, which was what many thieves in the corrupt city did. Street sharp enough to know how this worked, Bill had still been the dupe of the deception, and cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have listened to his first instincts.
As he ambled slowly along the narrow street, he felt as if imaginary sandwich boards hung on his shoulders. The imaginary weight was his wishful thoughts, and his steps got shorter as he walked in a trance, wondering where to go or what to do next.
He could not now go to his employers and admit the sandwich boards had been stolen. They would want to know why. Perhaps he could explain that he had to take them off to relieve himself. But, they would argue, why had he not walked back down Haymarket and across Trafalgar Square to their premises - only a ten or fifteen minute walk - as they told him to do whenever that situation arose? After all, the message of his boards could still be seen by hundreds of prospective buyers whether he was in Trafalgar Square or Shaftsbury Avenue.
He reached the corner of Frith Street, halted at the edge of the kerb and came face to face with a horse. The bedraggled creature, harnessed into a cart delivering ice to a restaurant, stared at him with indifference; but so wound up was he from the recent encounter with the black toothed swindler, he interpreted the horse’s impartial gaze as the baleful focus of an evil entity. He walked hurriedly along Frith Street, deciding he would spend his last remaining coins in the snug of the Dog and Duck, while contemplating his future.
He managed to find a corner seat, spent the last of his money on beer and a meat pie, and settled down to brood upon his circumstances. He had offered to sing that night at a pub in Islington, which would be a long walk but he wanted to meet with the pianist, someone who had offered to write the music for some of his songs, unfortunately he hadn’t yet come up with the comic song that would be his entrée to the Halls. But his output was far from prolific, consisting of only three songs - one about a lady’s little lapdog, one about a six-legged cat, and a sentimental ballad about a chimney sweep’s boy. None of which had set the pubs ablaze with enthusiasm, so he mostly sang other well-known comic songs and ballads, even resorting to Robert Herrick’s ‘Cherry Ripe’ on occasions.
After he had eaten his pie, he sipped his beer slowly to make it last, took out his notebook and pencil and stared at a blank sheet, willing himself to think of s
omething he could show the pianist that evening. But his mind was as blank as the page. He blamed lack of inspiration on his recent misfortune. Of all the dastardly deeds, stealing a poor sandwich man’s boards had to be the worst, the pettiest crime imaginable. And then, as he thought about the missing sandwich boards and mellowed slowly with each sip of ale, an idea formed in his brain, slight at first, then growing into a magnificent vision of a comic song. He scribbled a few words, and then a few more. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he scribbled furiously, composing a song with the most memorable chorus he had ever known. Suddenly he felt nothing but gratitude towards the blackguard with the black teeth. Had the man not swindled him he might not now be inspired to sit in the Dog and Duck composing a song which might one day be sung in every parlour throughout the land and bring him fame and fortune. ‘Thank you, you black hearted blackguard,’ he spoke aloud. ‘Thank you for giving me the inspiration I needed.’
That evening, feverish with excitement, he showed the pianist his new song, and they arranged to meet the next day. A day later, the song was tried out at one of the better pubs in the City Road, and for the first time one of Bill Flintlock’s songs received thunderous applause and cries for more. The song was repeated and received another rapturous ovation. Before long, Bill was singing it in minor music-hall theatres in Soho, and by the end of the summer he was second on the bill at Wilton’s Music Hall. He wrote many more songs, all of them reasonably good, and within two years the public’s appetite grew on the songs he wrote. He toured the British Isles, happily travelling First Class by railway, glad he rarely had to look another horse in the eye. And from his growing Music Hall repertoire there was always one song the audience demanded, which became a firm favourite throughout the land. Full of subtle innuendo, metaphors and puns, the song was about a sandwich man and was called ‘Where Do You Put Your Mustard, Bill?’ It sold more sheet music than any other song during Queen Victoria’s last reigning year.
